that’s not my name

Serena Dobson - 14 Jan 16

It took us a long time to think up and, more importantly, agree on, the names for both our children.  At the time I was pregnant with Littly no. 1 (and once we had found out that he was indeed a he) we did all the things that first time parents do.  We spent Sunday mornings in bed with steaming cups of coffee (how I miss the days that it was possible to do this without the need to shout “HOT!!!” at two minute intervals to a two year old inexplicably drawn to such dangers like moths are to a flame) and the “Big Book of Baby Names”.  we downloaded baby name apps.  We sent texts to each other throughout the day with a heady mix of the purely sensible and wildly ridiculous – suggestions sourced from the internet, overheard conversations, books we had read.  And we each allowed the other the power of veto, as is entirely necessary when the two people coming together on such a decision are a rugby playing northerner and a Guardian reading lefty from the Home Counties (I’ll let you fill in the blanks).  We thought we would never get there, but then, magically, we found it.  Instantly it stuck.  It worked for us, and, most importantly, we both loved it.

but a strange phenomenon has occurred repeatedly since we made our big decision.  On telling people that our son is called Finn the conversation invariably takes one of the following turns:

​”Oh how lovely, I have a grandson/nephew/third cousin twice removed called Finlay”
“I love the name Finlay”
“Hello Finlay, what a great name you have”

now, I have nothing specifically against the name Finlay, however it is not the name we picked for our son.  It is not the name we agonised over, rowed over and eventually came together a parents on. My son is called Finn.  His birth certificate documents this.  Any assumption that we named him something else entirely grates on me, and the extent to which it does so is invariably linked to how sleep deprived I am (currently, we are co-habiting with a newborn who is still waking three times a night.  You do the math).

and now it has begun afresh.  When I fell pregnant a second time, we were convinced that once again we would be adding to the all male Dobson sports team.  We started revisiting the boys names we had touched upon the first time around, and had in fact reached a shortlist.  However, our deliberations had to begin again from scratch when it was confirmed that I had in fact managed to crack the Dobson DNA – this was to be a little girl and it was therefore necessary to deliberate over a whole new set of names.  And once again wheel out that right to veto.  But we did it, and a name was not only agreed, but embraced by the pair of us.

now, with Beth not yet a month old I have already lost count of the number of times I have had to correct those people who are sure that what I actually meant to say was “this is Beth, short for Bethany” or, we call her Beth but she will be christened Elizabeth” (incidentally, she is unlikely to be christened anything if my lefty, agnostic principles win the toss again as they did with Finn, but that’s probably best left for another day’s blog).  It is as if I am being gently corrected on my children’s names by people who think that this sleep deprived mother is simply unable to get them quite right, and therefore needs a gentle little nudge in the right direction.

it’s a seemingly little thing in the grand scheme of huge and important things we must overcome as parents – it’s not a safety issue or a matter of life or death.  The kids will inevitably learn to deal with this in the way that best suits them (and their particular mood at the time) – hell it might not bother them in the slightest.  But for me, knowing the time spent and efforts exerted that coming to a common ground with MD took, it’s an irritation that sits firmly on my last nerve each and every time I encounter it.

Serena Dobson

for a long time it was just the two of us. We worked hard, ate out and had nice holidays. Then we got a cat. We still did all of those things, but we had to remember to put the cat in a cattery when we went on those nice long holidays. Then we acquired a small person... and the holidays dwindled in number. As did the opportunities to enjoy long lingering meals out. Now we're anticipating the arrival of another small person and something's gotta give. The house is too small, the garden is non existent and the green space is a drive away. Work is tough, especially when we're both commuting to the big smoke. And juggle nursery pick up. AND keep a semblance of a grip on things like laundry and washing up. So what do you do? Embark on a bit of a lifestyle change. In the country. In the North. Probably not eating that many peaches...

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